


Momentarily out of action, temporarily out of gas

by Anonymous



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: AU of an AU, Alternate Universe, M/M, Rough Trade verse, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-20 09:35:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3645456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>After months of rough hate-sex, Arthur drops off Eames' radar. Then they meet at a party.</p>
  <p>After that things go quickly downhill, and then slowly uphill.</p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1. Eames

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Rough Trade Ficlet](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/106512) by Whisky (whiskyrunner). 



> This story is an AU of one of Whiskyrunner's [own AUs](http://whiskyrunner.tumblr.com/post/55555850084/rough-trade-ficlet) of her Inception AU [Rough Trade](http://archiveofourown.org/works/384157). (AU-ception!) More specifically, it's a "what if"-continuation of that Rough Trade ficlet.
> 
> This story will make absolutely no sense if you don't read that ficlet first, and it'll probably still not make much sense if you haven't read Whiskyrunner's [Rough Trade series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/69580) and [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1459240) AU thereof. So go read them! They're really, really great. There's also a lot of other grains of Rough Trade verse gold to be found on her [Tumblr](http://whiskyrunner.tumblr.com/).
> 
> The title is from Queen's Killer Queen.

“Thank you,” Amy says, when Eames finally relents. She presses a kiss to his cheek. “I owe you one.”

Mal and Dom Cobb are hosting a small house party this Saturday, and apparently Eames and his sister are going together. Amy really likes Mal but finds Mal’s husband’s friends incredibly boring. Eames likes Mal too, but he does not feel like socialising this weekend (or, really, any weekend). He only goes so Amy will have someone to whisper cutting remarks to rather than suffer in silence.

\---

Now they’re at the Cobbs’ doorstep, fashionably late as befits an actress and a… whatever Eames is, nowadays. _A bum_ , he thinks, bitterly, even though his fancy clothes for the occasion belie the thought.

Mal greets them with hugs and glasses of sparkling white wine. Then she leads them into the living room, where she starts to introduce them to the guests who have already arrived. Eames reluctantly shakes the hand of someone called Nash, a colleague of Dom’s who leered at Amy when he first was introduced to her, then leered some more when he heard she was an actress. Eames knows Amy will have some choice things to say about this ‘Nash’ as soon as they’re reasonably alone.

Just to look anywhere but at Nash’s ugly mug, Eames throws a glance in the direction of the sofa set. And is immediately distracted, because there’s an impeccably dressed figure sitting alone in the sofa, and it looks like… no, it can’t be. But it is. _Arthur._

\---

Eames hasn’t seen Arthur in about a month, now. Arthur just straight off stopped showing up at the crummy bar, stopped replying to Eames’ texts and stopped letting Eames into his flat. Eames could still have reached him at his work, he supposes, but he respected the backbone Arthur suddenly seemed to have grown and didn’t try.

And now they’re at the same little social gathering.

Eames has always been good at compartmentalising, and this was two areas of his life that he never ever intended to meet. The thought of Mal or his sister finding out what he’s been doing to Arthur the past months is utterly mortifying. They think Eames is better than that. Eames should _be_ better than that.

There’s no getting out of it; soon Mal will lead Eames and Amy over to the sofa to introduce them to Arthur. When that happens Arthur’s reaction will most likely be priceless, but Eames finds – right then and there – that there’s a limit to how much he is willing to torment the other man, insufferable closet-case or no.

There’s not much Eames can do now, though. Trying to avoid an introduction will probably just draw extra attention. The only thing Eames really can do is give Arthur fair warning of what’s coming.

With this as his objective he ambles off to the left, as if some bric-a-brac on the coffee table had caught his attention. Rounding the coffee table slowly, Eames gets a good look at Arthur before Arthur can see him.

Arthur looks like shit. He’s pale, with bloodshot eyes (but the dark circles under his eyes inexplicably seem lighter than Eames has ever seen them). He’s staring unseeingly out the window, but when Eames steps into his line of sight he slowly turns his head to him. The simple motion seems to take all of his strength.

\---

Eames thought Arthur’s reaction when he saw him would be priceless. It isn’t; it’s _horrifying_. If Arthur was pale before it’s nothing to what he gets now – he doesn’t just turn white, he turns vaguely _green_. His lower lip, startlingly pink now in his sheet of a face, starts to tremble. Then his hands start to shake wildly in his lap.

He and Eames stare at each other for three long seconds. Then Arthur rises, on legs that seem to barely hold him up, and _bolts_ from the room.

The other people in the room look up, surprised, at Arthur’s sudden rush. Together they watch as Arthur staggers into the doorway to the entry hall, hitting it shoulder first, and disappears through it without a glance back. In stunned silence they hear him struggle to get the flat door open, and then the ‘bang’ as it slams shut behind him.

The whole room is still and silent, shocked. Then _Dom_ , of all people, rushes out after Arthur. For a moment Eames had contemplated running after him himself, but with Dom already out there with him Eames would probably do more harm than good. Pretty shaken up himself, Eames sits down on the sofa and tries to push the image of Arthur’s gobsmacked face out of his mind.

\---

After a several more seconds of shocked silence, people awkwardly start their conversations back up. But they all fall silent again when Dom comes back up into the flat, alone, a few minutes later.

“Don’t worry, he’s fine,” Dom says to the room at large. “He’s in a cab home.”

A sense of relief billows through the room at that, but it doesn’t quite reach Eames in the sofa. It doesn’t seem to reach Mal either, because she is on Dom at once, her eyes worried.

“A _cab_?” she asks, in a hushed tone.

Eames rises from the sofa and takes a few steps closer to them, under the guise of looking out one of the windows. In the periphery of his vision Dom shrugs, wearily.

“I was of half a mind to call an ambulance again, but he insisted I shouldn’t.”

An ambulance? _Again_? What has really happened to Arthur since Eames saw him last?

“Aren’t you afraid he’ll do something… stupid?” Mal asks, her French accent more pronounced when she’s worried.

“Nah,” says Dom, shaking his head a little. “Arthur’s just tired. He said he just needed to get home and sleep.”

 _Idiot_ , Eames thinks. _Of course he’d say that to get you off his back_.

But then again, Eames knows more about Arthur than Dom does. Eames is the only person in this room, possibly in the world, who knows that Arthur isn’t ‘just tired’. Guilt surges through Eames’ body.

Mal seems to have a similarly sceptical reaction to what Dom’s just said, though. She’s grabbing Dom by the arm, and her brows are deeply furrowed. When she speaks again she has lowered her voice even further. The only words Eames can make out are ‘nervous breakdown’.

 _That_ definitely doesn’t make Eames feel any better. He’s just decided to take the risk of stepping even closer to hear when someone walks up to Dom and Mal, breaking off their whispered conversation. It’s Nash, Dom’s despicable colleague, the one who leered at Amy before.

“What are you two conspiring about?” he slurs, already too drunk for the first hour of a party. “We need more booze, and as the hosts you should comply!”

Mal and Dom share one last worried look before they follow Nash to the alcohol cabinet.

\---

“I’m sorry, Amy,” Eames says. “I’ve got to go. I just got a text from a friend. It’s an emergency.”

His sister looks him over, searching for signs that this isn’t just an attempt at getting out of the party while still having her ‘owe him one’. Apparently he looks shaken up enough for her to buy into his lie.

“Okay,” she says. “Go. I’ll live. Go.”

Eames goes, and when he steps out on the street he almost puts his foot in puke.

 _Arthur’s?_ he wonders, feeling sick himself.

He sidesteps the vomit as he walks out on the street to hail a cab.

\---

Eames taps his leg impatiently as the cab glides through half-dark New York streets. He fiddles with his phone, occasionally sending Arthur a new text: variations on _R u alright?_ and _Pls say something._ Arthur doesn’t text back.

Thoughts are spinning in Eames’ head. Apparently Arthur _didn’t_ grow a backbone overnight four weeks ago; he grew a nervous breakdown. And if Dom called an ambulance for him, that means he broke down at work. Probably sitting at the desk that Eames fucked him over, four and a half weeks ago.

Eames can imagine it all too well: Arthur, overworked as always, accidentally throwing a glance at the spot on his desk where Eames had dropped a leaking condom a few days earlier, and everything becoming too much for him. So much too much that Dom had to call an _ambulance_.

Maybe Arthur wasn’t even at home when Eames stood outside his flat, ordering him to let him in; maybe he was at a hospital. If that’s the case Eames dearly hopes that no helpful nurse decided to check Arthur’s BlackBerry for him.

Eames hasn’t felt this worried, or for that matter this _anything_ , since he decided that he’d gotten over Henri and stopped letting himself have feelings. Now shame, guilt and self-disgust mixes together into a sickening cocktail, and for the first time ever Eames thinks he has some inkling of how Arthur might feel on a regular basis. The thought is not heartening.

Eames rushes out of the cab as soon as it pulls up at Arthur’s building, without waiting for the driver to count out his change.

\---

Eames knows the code to Arthur’s building, but he doesn’t have a key to his flat. He eyes its lock resentfully, thinking of the picklocks in his drawer at home. You don’t bring picklocks to a fancy house party.

Unable to get the door open himself, he pushes the doorbell button. He can’t hear the result; the walls and doors in this building do hardly let any sounds through. This also means that Eames can’t call Arthur’s BlackBerry to see if he really is at home.

The thought of Arthur’s phone makes Eames realise that it’s time to try and give Arthur ‘fair warning’ again. He whips out his own phone and starts typing.

 _Its me at ur door_. _U dont have to open if u dont want, I just want to know where u r._

He doesn’t get any reply this time either.

\---

Eames has rung the doorbell five more times, sent three more texts and hammered on the door as hard as he can twice when a strange idea strikes him: if he takes the time to write a grammatically correct message, then maybe Arthur will understand how worried he really is. He carefully composes his next message, the one that’ll magically get Arthur to reply.

_Mal says she’s afraid you’ll do something stupid. Please just promise me you won’t and I’ll leave. Please._

The moment he clicks ‘send’, Eames realises that this isn’t the message he wants to send _at all_.

 _She didnt say it to ME, mind, i just overheard_ , he rectifies quickly, clicking ‘send’ once more.

Half a minute passes, during which Eames sits slumped against the outside of Arthur’s door. But then, wonder of wonders, Eames phone lights up and gives a ‘ping’. The screen reads “1 new message, The Closet-Case’s Fancy Phone”. Eames clicks ‘open’.

_I think I already might have._

Eames has to look the message over three times before he comprehends what he’s reading, but when he does, his reaction is instant. He shoots to his legs again and turns to the door again.

“ARTHUR!” he roars, pounding on the door. “Open up! NOW!”

\---

Eames has taken a step back, ready to try and kick the heavy door in, when he hears the sound of a lock turning.

The door opens. And there Arthur stands, bloodshot eyes drowsing and hair in disarray. It looks like he’s raked his hands through it over and over.

“My doctor gave me sleeping pills,” he says. His voice is utterly without inflection. “I think I might have taken a few too many.”

“Arthur!” Eames half yells. “How many did you take? Did you try to kill yourself?”

“I just wanted to sleep,” replies Arthur, his monotone voice drifting off. “I just wanted to sleep…”

His knees buckle under him, and Eames drops his phone to grab Arthur under the arms before he falls. Arthur’s eyes snap open again.

“I think I need to… lie down…” he says.

Eames knows he won’t be able to hold Arthur up much longer, especially if he’s to call an ambulance. So he gently lowers Arthur’s body to the floor, taking the other man’s head in his lap.

“Oh, _kitten_ ,” he says distractedly.

With one hand he’s shaking Arthur by the shoulder, trying to make him stay awake; with the other he’s groping for his phone on the floor, hoping it didn’t break from its fall.

It didn’t. A disproportionate wave of relief washes over Eames as he pushes 9-1-1 on the number pad.

\---

Arthur keeps his eyes half open during Eames’ call to the emergency agency, as if listening interestedly. But as soon as the call is over he closes his eyes again.

Eames slaps him across the face.

“Don’t fall asleep!” he says. He can hear the panic in his own voice. “Arthur!”

Arthur’s eyes open the slightest bit again. It’s easy to see that doing so costs him a lot.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper. “You hate me.”

Eames has no reply ready, but he doesn’t need to give one; Arthur is already asleep again. Eames scoops him up in his arms and rushes down the steps, out to where the ambulance should soon be. _Must_ soon be.

\---

Every new nurse asks who Eames is, taking notes on their clipboards.

“A friend,” Eames replies over and over, happy that he is, for once, wearing clothing that befits the friend of an investment banker.

As far as he can tell no one suspects that he’s actually the gay lover of the man who has overdosed on sleeping pills. He wants to tell Arthur this in a mocking tone, and the realisation that he might never get the chance is a knife to his chest.

Dear God. Has he come to _care_ for Arthur?

As Arthur is wheeled into the emergency room, a new realisation hits Eames: _I left Arthur’s flat unlocked. He’d be angry about that._ Arthur being angry would be a good thing, Eames decides, because Arthur being angry means Arthur being alive.

\---

It’s a long wait outside the ER, and Eames has more than enough time to think through all his interactions with Arthur. Why didn’t he see this coming? How couldn’t he tell how bad things really were for Arthur? He has half a psychology master, for goodness’ sake.

He tries to think of other things, even letting his thoughts wander much closer to Henri than he has let them for over a _year_ now, because right now _any_ distraction will do…

 _‘Stop beating yourself up,’_ says the Henri in Eames’ head, his sky-blue eyes sympathetic. _‘You’re doing the right thing, now.’_

 _‘Don’t patronise me,’_ Eames replies, shoving the imaginary Henri back into the recesses of his mind. _I’ll beat myself up all I want._

\---

Eames must have dozed off, because he jerks awake when someone speaks to him. It’s a nurse, saying something in a kind voice.

“I’m sorry, what?” Eames manages to blurt out.

“He’s sleeping, now, but he’ll wake up,” the nurse repeats.

Eames looks up at her uncomprehendingly.

“He’ll live,” she clarifies, putting her hand on Eames shoulder and giving it a small squeeze.

And Eames utterly breaks down.


	2. 2. Arthur

Arthur wakes up tucked into the light blue sheets of a hospital bed, and is immediately torn between wanting to figure out what he’s doing there and wanting to go back to sleep. He’s tired to the _bone_. It’s not the kind of tired that he’s used to, the kind that makes him shake and think of things he doesn’t want to think of. No, this is a kind of tired that makes his thoughts sluggish and his limbs unable to move.

There’s a nurse in the room. Arthur might as well speak to her.

“What happened?” he croaks out.

The nurse walks up to the foot of the bed and looks at him. She’s smiling, but her eyes are unreadable.

“You overdosed on sleeping pills,” she replies. She somehow manages to sound kind and matter-of-fact at the same time.

Arthur’s brain works agonizingly slowly as he tries to formulate a new question.

“Did I try to kill myself?” he finally manages to ask.

The nurse sits down on a chair that’s standing by Arthur’s bed, and puts her hand on Arthur’s arm.

“We don’t know,” she says. “We were hoping _you_ could shed some light on that.”

Arthur tries to smile at her, but he’s not sure he succeeds. A new question struggles to the surface of his mind.

“What…” Arthur’s voice breaks.

The nurse helps him drink from a glass of water that stood on his bedside table. Arthur can’t even lift his head from the pillow.

“What day is it?” he tries again.

“Sunday.”

Sunday. That’s good. That means no one expects him to be at work. But maybe they wouldn’t anyway? Arthur has vague memories of something about a ‘major nervous breakdown’, and Cobb forbidding him from coming back to work. When was that?

The thought of Cobb spurs a new memory, more recent (Arthur thinks), of Arthur asking Cobb to not call an ambulance for him again. Maybe Cobb did anyway, and that’s why Arthur’s here now?

The nurse is still at Arthur’s side, stroking his arm.

“Who knows that I’m here?” he asks her.

“Only your friend, Mr. Kennard,” she says, smiling her kindly smile again. “I think he’d like to visit you today, if that’s fine with you. He seemed very worried about you.”

Cobb’s last name is ‘Cobb’, not ‘Kennard’, Arthur is fairly sure. So who the hell is ‘his friend, Mr. Kennard’? …oh. Eames. But wait a second… _Eames_?

Arthur has a feeling that there are a thousand questions he should want to ask, but none of them feel very pressing right now. He closes his eyes, and drowses off again.

\---

Arthur spends the day drifting in and out of sleep. One time when he wakes, he has the presence of mind to ask for his BlackBerry. The phone is the best way Arthur can think of to get any clues to why _Eames_ , of all people, took Arthur to the hospital last night.

A nurse – a new one, now, younger and brisker – takes the BlackBerry out of a bedside drawer and hands it to Arthur. Arthur’s hands only shake a little as he reaches for it.

The phone is shut off. At first Arthur thinks it’s out of battery, but it readily wakes for him when he clicks the ‘on’-button. Someone – Eames, probably – must have shut it off. With a vague sense of alarm Arthur clicks his way to his text messages.

\---

By the time Arthur has read his way backwards through to the first text he got from Eames yesterday – “ _Sry, I didnt mean to spook you. R u ok?_ ” – he has a much clearer picture of the events of last night.

Arthur had agreed to come to a party at Cobb’s apartment, partly to show Cobb how much better he was doing so he’d let him come back to work, partly because he needed to be away from home so he wouldn’t do something stupid, like calling Eames. If he wanted to go back to work he’d need to find something to help him sleep that, unlike the sleeping pills, didn’t leave him drowsy and unalert during the days. Something like being fucked by Eames.

Going to the party to keep himself from calling Eames didn’t do Arthur much good, though, because then Eames showed up at the Cobbs’ party – why!? – and then Arthur, apparently, freaked out and fled home… and downed way too many sleeping pills… and then he texted Eames about it? And then Eames took him to the hospital!?

That’s what must have happened, but it doesn’t make any sense. Arthur doesn’t really remember anything after being helped into a cab by Cobb, and he honestly has no idea whether he took too many pills by mistake, or if he intended to kill himself and then got cold feet.

Arthur is no stranger to ‘suicidal ideation’; a particularly gruesome night a few years ago he’d been pretty close to taking a dive into the Hudson River (and subway rails always have a certain pull on his mind). But sleeping pills had never been the way he intended to go. Then again, he’s never really had a supply until now. In any case, Arthur is of the firm opinion that suicide shouldn’t be a spur of the moment thing, so he is grateful for Eames’ intervention.

As Arthur drifts off to sleep again, he decides to let Eames visit, if he wants. It’ll give Arthur an opportunity to thank him, and maybe even figure out more about what really happened last night. Besides, Eames poses no threat to him here. He can hardly fuck Arthur in the hospital bed (though the thought makes Arthur half-hard), and he has to leave if Arthur tells him to.

\---

Arthur is half-awakedly looking at the sky through a miserable little window when he hears footsteps, heavier than any of the nurses’, walk into his room.

Arthur turns his head, and at first he doesn’t recognize his visitor. It is Eames, of course, but his body language is nothing like Arthur has ever seen it before; his shoulders are slumped, his head bowed. (And for some reason he’s better dressed than Arthur has ever seen him before, in proper pants, a shirt and even a proper _jacket_.)

When Eames lifts his head to look at Arthur, Arthur can see that his eyes are red-rimmed, with dark circles beneath them. He looks like –

“You look like me,” Arthur tells him.

Eames gives him a little smile. It’s as odd as everything else about this new Eames: too kind, and almost… shy? Arthur has heard the phrase ‘like a whole new person’ before, but he’d never imagined it could be so applicable in real life.

“Well, I didn’t get much sleep last night…” Eames replies, cautiously. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Arthur says, cautious as well. He’s learned the hard way to be wary around Eames, and this ‘new version’ somehow more unsettling than the old Eames ever managed to be. Still, there’s really only one thing for Arthur to say.

 “Thank you,” he tells a speck of dirt on the ceiling. “For yesterday.”

Eames sighs, and sits down in the chair by Arthur’s bed. He seems to find the floor as interesting as Arthur finds the ceiling. The silence stretches on until it’s decidedly uncomfortable.

 “You’re welcome,” Eames says, finally.

Arthur feels that the enormity of what Eames did yesterday was not encompassed by that awkward exchange, so he tries again.

“You saved my life,” he says, forcing himself to look at Eames’ face.

Eames is still looking at the floor.

“Not necessarily,” he says. “Sleeping pill dosages are generally too low to kill yourself with, nowadays.”

“Er… okay?” Arthur doesn’t quite know what to say to that. “I… Wait, why do you know that?”

“I studied psychology at University,” Eames says, with a quick glance at Arthur’s face.

This is very much news to Arthur. A thug who lives in a hovel doesn’t really fit Arthur’s image of someone who’s gone to Uni. Arthur should probably not say that to Eames, though.

“So, er… anyway, what are you trying to say?” he says instead. “That my ‘thanks’ wasn’t warranted?”

This earns him another one of this new Eames’ weird little shy smiles. This one is even more unnerving than the last.

“Nah,” says Eames, his voice hushed but amused. “You could still have suffered some serious brain damage if I hadn’t been there. Your ‘thanks’ is still appropriate. And welcome.”

There’s a familiar twinkle in Eames’ eyes now, but Arthur finds himself growing serious.

“Why did you do it?” he asks. “You hate me.”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth he’s struck by a strong sense of déjà vu.

Eames’ lets out a broken little sigh.

“No, Arthur, I don’t,” he says. “I thought I did, but I don’t.”

Oh. Well, Arthur thought he hated Eames too, but it’s surprisingly hard to hate someone who has just saved your life (or your brain from serious damage, tomayto, tomahto).

“And speaking of that,” Eames goes on, his voice barely a whisper now, “I won’t fuck you any more, Arthur. Not the way you want. …and it’s probably best if we don’t fuck any other ways either.”

That Eames is talking about fucking _here_ , with nurses and doctors and other patients around, sends a jolt of panic through Arthur’s veins. Then Arthur’s sluggish brain catches up to what Eames’ just said, and the panic turns to ice.

“What?” he says. He feels his eyes narrow. “Why?”

“ _Why_!? Arthur, look at yourself. Just bumping into me at that party made you _try to_ _kill yourself_!” Eames is still whispering, but his tone is urgent.

“You don’t know that,” replies Arthur, managing to sound much calmer than he feels. “The nurses say that the possibility that this was an accidental overdose can’t be ruled out.”

“Still–” Eames begins in an infuriatingly mild voice.

“This is nothing, Eames,” Arthur interrupts him. “I’ll be up and running again in no time.”

“Nothing? Suicide attempt or no, I drove you into a fucking nervous breakdown, Arthur.”

Arthur gives an involuntary bark of a laugh that makes his head, throat and chest hurt.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he says. This,” – he waves his hand weakly, indicating himself and the hospital bed and the whole nervous breakdown – “has been a long time coming.”

“Do you think I’m daft enough to buy that last night had nothing to do with me?” says Eames, his voice a little harsher now, more like Arthur is used to hearing it.

“I don’t remember much of last night,” Arthur retorts, quite harsh himself.

“Well, it’s no matter. I’m just here to make sure that you’re alright. We won’t be seeing each other much after this, I don’t think.” Eames voice is calm and firm, but it has a strained quality to it.

“So, what now? You’re just gonna… leave?” Arthur asks.

“Yeah.” There’s a determined set to Eames’ jaw. “I’ll move, too, if that’s what I have to do for you to stay away. Never liked that flat much anyway.”

Arthur manages to force down his laugh, this time. He’d never hated a place like he’d hated Eames little hole of an apartment. And still he’d kept coming back, over and over again. And now Eames won’t let him?

The laugh Arthur forced down rises back up like bile in his throat, but it’s not laughter any more, it’s a burning anger. How _dare_ Eames use Arthur as his own personal fuck toy for months and then turn around and refuse Arthur what _he_ wants ‘for his own good’!?

Well, Arthur wasn’t the only one having the best sex of his life when they fucked. (“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” Eames had said after he’d tailed Arthur to his apartment and threatened to make a scene unless Arthur let him in. “I can’t just wait around until you decide to deign me with your presence.”) And Arthur can be manipulative when he wants.

When Eames starts to rise from his chair, Arthur grabs his arm.

“What happened to ‘Don’t ever change, pet’?” he asks. He only lets a small amount of his anger out to color his words.

“Oh, piss off!” Eames shoots back, not even bothering to keep his voice low anymore. He easily wrenches himself free from Arthur’s feeble grip.

“Hush,” Arthur hisses. “Just… why stop ruining my life now? It was going so well.”

“Yeah, that’s my point!” Eames hisses back, keeping his voice low again.

He looks down at Arthur for a moment, his brows furrowed. Then he swallows, and when he speaks again his voice is monotone; his words sound rehearsed.

“Look, Arthur,” he says. “I’ve been treating you like shit, and you don’t deserve that. You deserve someone who can show you that being gay doesn’t mean you should be punished. You deserve someone who’ll help you get better.”

Arthur bites his lips to stop them from curling into a triumphant smile. He has his ‘in’.

“Well, I don’t have anyone like that,” he says, keeping his voice somewhere between ‘reasonable’ and ‘sharp’. “In fact, you’re the only person who knows about this” – he waves his hand again – “at all. If you walk out that door and don’t come back, I’ll be completely alone here.”

Eames sits down again, and rubs his face in his hands. He looks like he’s feeling guilty. Good.

After a short silence, Eames looks up from his hands, straight at Arthur.

“Okay, Arthur,” he says, slowly. “I’ll hold your bloody hand through this, alright? I’ll be your friend, because you don’t have any. But I _won’t_ fuck you.”

“Sure,” Arthur says, letting his eyelids droop a little. It’s not just affectation; he really is very tired. “We’ll be ‘friends’. I’m sure we’ll be great at that.”

His words startle a snicker out of Eames. Arthur smiles weakly back, and lets sleep swallow him up. Before he drowses off completely he could swear that he feels a hand on his forehead and hears a whisper of ‘Sleep tight’.

\---

Eames comes back to visit the next day, bringing a newspaper (with the economics section taken out) and a bag of donuts. The two of them stumble through an awkward conversation about literature, which becomes genuinely animated when Arthur upsets Eames’ patriotic feelings by revealing that he hasn’t read the Harry Potter books.

Two days after that Eames brings a well read paperback copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone and chocolate muffins. Arthur is much less tired by then, but still held back at the hospital for some extra check ups and a psych evaluation. Rather than stare out the window or go to the group room to watch TV, Arthur reads through the book in less than two days.

Eames keeps visiting with nut free baked goods and consecutive Harry Potter books. He and Arthur get into a routine where they make light conversation and smile politely at each other while avoiding eye contact, dangerous topics and harsh tones. The whole situation is utterly ridiculous, but Arthur plays along, biding his time. Like some backwards Scheherazade he makes sure to always have one of Eames’ Harry Potter books in his possession; that way they’ll have to meet up even after Arthur is out of the hospital.

After about a week and a half the doctors decide to let Arthur go back home, with his prescription of sleeping pills revoked.


End file.
